Marcus, a lanky seventeen-year-old with restless eyes and a faded red hoodie, leans against the cold metal of a dumpster. Jamal, his friend, shorter and stockier, taps his sneaker nervously on the pavement. They exchange wary glances as a police siren wails far off, their hands stuffed deep in their pockets. "You ever think about getting outta here, Jamal? Like, for real?" "Man, ain't nobody getting out. This is all we got," he replies, his voice tinged with resignation. The night feels heavy, as if the city itself is pressing down on them.

Raymond, the ex-con, approaches with a slow nod. The boys tense, ready to run, but something in his eyes makes them pause. He stops a few feet away, his presence commanding but not threatening. "You two look like I used to," he says, his voice gravelly but gentle. "Mind if I sit?" "Depends. You a cop?" "Nah, son. Done with that life. Spent ten years paying for mistakes I made right here on these streets," he answers, dropping his gaze to the ground.

Raymond studies the teens, his eyes filled with memories and regret. Marcus chews silently, his guard slowly dropping. "You think you got no options, but you're wrong. Prison’s cold, lonely. None of your so-called friends visit. You’re just a number," "But what else is there, man? We gotta survive," "I survived too. But at what cost? I lost my mom, missed my sister’s wedding, came out to a city that moved on without me," Raymond answers, voice trembling with pain.